Customer Reviews

I Hate To See That Evening Sun Go Down: Collected Stories

5 star:		(14)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

William Gay's stories woven from the fabric of rural Tennessee depict flawed Southerners trapped by wrong decisions, yet his writing embraces the reader with a visual landscape blending the natural terrain with tormented souls. I discovered his fiction first in the Oxford American, then read with enthusiasm his novels The Long Home and Provinces of Night, finding from them an honest storyteller who appreciates the older, traditonal elements of good fiction--placing the reader in the bosum of nature and delving into the soul of unique characterization. You find yourself wanting more, trapped by his engaging style, straight-forward dialogue and prose about country-bled commonfolk as clear to the ear and the eye as a Tennessee morning and as absorbing as the frozen blue ridges. He has a way of mystery that feeds the imagination and you feel the torment in the underbrush of stories that ring in your head long after finishing the last paragraph.--Jesse Earle Bowden, author of Look and Tremble: A novel of West Florida and Always the Rivers Flow.

I'd give eleven of these thirteen short stories an A+, the remaining two, a B+. This is a good a collection of short stories as you'll find. It's no wonder that the critics have nothing but praise for Mr. Gay. Many of the characters are similar. Alhough they are told in the third-person, the stories belong to the menfolks. They are tough, quiet, often angry and capable of violence at the slightest provocation. (In "Crossroads Blues," the character Borum, in describing how he shot his wife and his brother when he found them in bed together says, "You need to know what a man's capable of.") Sometimes they are the victims of their own inaction until it is too late to extricate themselves from the dilemmas they find themselves, and they do something horrific. They often have difficulties with women, ever seeking the elusive female in their lives. In some stories there is conflict between children and older parents. There are murders, accidental killings, suicides, accidental deaths-- and divorces, infidelities, teenage pregnancies and abortions, cancer and Alzheimer's. These characters inhabit, at least some of them, a place called Ackerman Field, somewhere near Nashville, Tenneseee where there is still a "high sheriff." They listen to George Jones, the Carter Family and Jimmie Rogers. But these characters certainly are not freaks and are ultimately very sympathetic. I have known some of these men; they are strong as oak trees.

According to biographical information on Mr. Gay, he is largely self-taught and is a voracious reader. A seventh grade teacher gave him a copy of Thomas Wolfe's LOOK HOMEWARD ANGEL; and the rest is, as they say, history. Like Wolfe, sometimes Mr. Gay's prose gets a little too ornate; for the most part, however, he's a joy to read. Mr. Gay is a great lover of similes and metaphors; they often work beautifully. Windows are "stoned by double-dared boys." A man views his naked, sleeping wife "in the filigreed moonlight at once real yet as remote and lost as a dusty nude study stacked in a museum's forgotten corner." A room in a funeral home is "a cozy paneled vestibule just one door removed from eternity."

This is probably sparrows screeching at eagles but I believe the term is "jerry-rigged" (p. 120) rather than "jury-rigged." But then, even Homer nodded.

These are quite fantastic stories.

Just last year, through a recommendation from author Marlin Barton (also a fine writer), I discovered the amazing work of William Gay. I read his two novels, THE LONG HOME and PROVINCES OF NIGHT, and I stood in awe of his creative abilities, the seemingly effortless depth of his descriptive passages, and the glow of truth that shone from within his characters. I purposefully waited a bit to read his short story collection, just to give myself a little space to `step back' and absorb the work contained here on its own merit, without considering the novels. I was not disappointed - the stories in this volume are every bit as finely crafted as his longer works, every bit as rewarding.

Gay presents an amazing panoply of characters and situations here for the reader - all within the `confines' of his realm, rural Tennessee. Several of the stories are populated by characters that also appeared in the novels - but the works here stand on their own. The area of the country with which Gay concerns himself is a rich one - he knows it well, obviously. No one could write like he does by simply inventing every single detail. He is a master at his craft - I suppose becoming a writer well into his adult life allowed the `juices' to steep and age and mellow. Whatever the process, the results are astonishingly rich - as with his novels, I found myself re-reading passages here and there, marveling at the craftsmanship they contained, at the natural flow of the words. They seemed to roll gently and powerfully into my mind as I read, carrying me along with them.

There is both humor and pathos contained in these stories - along with every shade of emotion and experience that lies in between the two. Gay's humorous passages never make fun of his characters - he has far too much respect for these people to allow that to happen. Likewise, the touching sections never become maudlin. The balance that he strikes is deft and skilled. Many of these tales are dark, but even within these, there is an abundance of light to be found and experienced. There is violence here - but there is also love and tenderness. There is adultery and betrayal - but there is also deep-hearted, blind-force devotion. There is family - joyous and painful scenes, just like in `real life'.

In the title story, we meet old man Meacham - `older than Moses', according to on character. He has been put into a nursing home by his son, a lawyer for whom the old man sacrificed to put through law school. He finds the nursing home to be a `factory that makes dead people', and flees to his homestead, only to find that his son has attained power of attorney over him and rented it out to family that Meacham sees as `white trash' and lazy, `all the way down to his walk'. The old man sets up housekeeping in a tenant shack on the property and sets about to annoy Choat, now living in Meacham's house, with the perseverance of a bedbug that can neither be found nor killed. Several of the incidents related in this story actually made me laugh out loud - and parts of it caused a stone to appear in my heart.

`A death in the woods', Bonedaddy...', `The paperhanger', `Crossroads blues', `Closure and roadkill on the life's highway', `Good `til now', and `My hand is just fine where it is' all deal with aspects of adultery and love - but, as with the vast array of humanity that walks this ball, it's too easy just to condemn any one of them for what they've done. Life - and these characters, thankfully - are more complex than that. There are good and bad aspects, strengths and weaknesses, within each and every one of us - and Gay's characters are created and drawn in such a way as to make all of these facets known to us.

There is murder here - `A death in the woods', `Bonedaddy...', `The paperhanger', `Those Deep Elm Brown's Ferry blues'. There are a three of the most touching portraits of aging humans I've ever read - `I hate to see the evening sun go down' and `Those Deep Elm Brown's Ferry blues' and `Sugarbaby'. `The paperhanger' is also one of the most tension-filled mystery stories I've ever come across.

In sum, there's a bit of something here for everyone's tastes - all written with Gay's lapidarian care, all treasures. I can't recommend this man's writing highly enough, and I can't wait for him to produce more - but I have a feeling he'll be taking his time, making sure things are just right.

`You hush now, Nipper...'

William Gay has staked out the Tennessee/Alabama border country and made it his own playground. The stories are compelling and have a depth that is unusual in short fiction. I put Gay right up there with Raymond Carver and John Cheever as a champion of the American short story. Gay's greatest strength is his ability to use dialogue to move the story forward. There is nothing artificial or stilted about any of the words used by the characters in Gay's stories. The usual southern melancholy and pathos is present in each story--we are dealing with broken hearts, eny, greed, dementia in old folks, quick and lethal brutality. It's all there. But done in such a free and easy manner that you almost forget about the terrible events unfolding before your eyes and get lost in the lovely use of language. And one crucial point, the stories have a conclusion. Too often I find that modern fiction has no beginning, no middle and no end. Gay starts his stories and ends his stories--he first and foremost is a tremendously gifted storyteller, of that there is no question.

In this collection, smart old men outfox their educated sons, wives, lawyers and the law. The dialogue is hilarious and action is often comic--William Gay is a witty writer in the way of southerners who are much smarter than they let on. But he can't hide his brilliance--his prose is much too good. Savor these stories about the raw truth of human emotion, of characters who have the courage to act on their passions, despite the consequences. His characters erupt in violence but there is always a reason for it, perhaps incomprehensible to readers who have not dealt with the extinction of their way of life. Several characters are not sane, others have bouts of Alzheimers, and others confront marital infidelities. In each case a force larger and more deadly than the character pushes him or her into a horrific decision. Gay is masterful in dipping in and out of these "insanities," which gives some of the stories an eerie surreal quality. No other writer has written so passionately about the Tennessee landscape--through Gay's eyes, it's seductive, ruined, ebullient, and haunting. The final story is bittersweet and beautiful, and gives hope that perhaps William Gay does believe in love, if only for a short time before it, too, is snatched away.

I doubt anyone will read this review, since I noticed the last written reviews of this book were submitted several years ago -- a testament to how little this beautiful collection of short stories has been read. That is truly unfortunate, since these stories are each painfully beautiful. The Tennessee counstyside is William Gay's locale of choice and in each story it plays a role, its woods always present, mysterious, sometimes frightening. Gay sets the scene to match the tone of each tale, and it is usually grim at best. However, the stories and their characters have a rough-edged beauty all their own. Ironic and often sublimely tragic, these stories bare the dark underside of human nature. The title story, "I Hate to See the Evening Sun Go Down," has darkly comic elements and is the only story that made me laugh, even while its protagonist stubbornly continues to fight in the face of inevitable defeat. In other stories, like "A Death in the Woods" and "The Paperhanger," life deals tragic blows to the characters who manage to survive in ways that are not always admirable, but survive they do, nonetheless. And often, as with the protagonist in "The Man Who Knew Dylan," they simply drive away, often leaving behind, with their problems, their responsibilities as well -- responsibilities often for heinous acts. Gay's language is clean and crisp, befitting the starkness of the themes of the stories. A lovely collection, even if it is tough to take, at times.

Particular favorites are the title story, "Sugarbaby", "Closure and Roadkill on the Life's Highway" and "The Paperhanger". But after a while the variations on the "violent men and their bad women" or the occassional "violent woman and her bad man" can become a bit repetitive. Like Cormac McCarthy, William Gay seems to have a sense of fatality about life, where people are inexorably drawn down their paths by something within their natures and violence is always threatening under the surface. Also like Mr. McCarthy, Gay seems to share an aversion to quotation marks being used to denote speech. Must be a southerner thing. While some archetypes do keep popping up over and over again, (Proud men whose pride leads them to violence, whether defying the divorce courts,the federal government, or their own greedy children, over and over again) the oddballs really do stand out and are vibrant characters, like the Pakistani couple in "The Paperhanger", or the jaded musician in "The Man who knew Dylan" Or the aging bootlegger who can't find his hidden stash of money in "Closure and Roadkill"

Overall an impressive debut short story collection, but I'm deducting a star for repetition of theme or character type in a few too many stories.

I purchased this book based largely on the strength of the reviews below. If anything, they understate the the quality of the writing and stories contained in the book. I found stories to be compelling and the writing superb. If you enjoy truly great writing and short stories you will not want to pass this book up. I am amazed that this collection has not recieved more attention or acclaim. (By the way, I agree with Francis' observation in her review that the "expert" reviewer who opined that Gay's characters are undeveloped obviously didn't actually read the book).

I don't usually read short stories and picked this on accident but it was such a pleasent surprise! The characters are really intersting and you could really relate to them. When I read the stories, I felt like I was in their lives as opposed to just viewing them from the outside. He gives you just enough information so you can turn it in to what you want it to be. He just tells the stories without judgement. It was just a good book. You can take it at face value or really think about the stories and get your mind around the symbolism. The only thing I didn't like was that the author did not use quotation marks but other than that it was excellent.

I have read William Gay's three novels--and will very likely read his new title to be released in September just to say that I have read it. But I have to confess that, in spite of his excellence as a writer (and that cannot be disputed), I found myself loathing nearly all of his characters (with the notable exception of Mr. Willim Tell Oliver in THE LONG HOME). I am very happy that I don't know anyone in real life that is, to my knowledge, remotely like the characters he seems to be totally at home with. Nor, for that matter, do I want any part of that Tennessee country that he writes about. Of course, I know that the novels were set back in the 30s, 40s, and 50s. I have to assume that Gay's country has changed for the better by now. But so much of what I read in the novels frankly repulsed me. I'm not squeamish, but I dislike a steady diet of filthy-mouthed,unlettered, unwashed people whose food seemed unfit for a stray dog. Certainly I would not give it to my dog.

So, yes, I hand it to William Gay. He is a writer to be reckoned with. But his choice of subject matter and characters, with few exceptions, repels me. As I said earlier, I found Mr. Oliver in THE LONG HOME to be the worthy of respect and affection. I thought him to be an old man of character. The young men are, without doubt, unsavory sorts waiting, it seems, for Gay to redeem them a bit at the end of the novels.

Gay's good, but not by any means one of my favorite authors. He struck it big with his first story published in THE GEORGIA REVIEW--and the rest is history. Now, I see that a film has been made from that story. I would like to see it only for Hal Holbrook's performance in it.But Gay caught the eye of the literary establishment, of which THE GEORGIA REVIEW, is a prime example--and now someone is ready to snap up every word the man writes.That's the way it works!

I am very "down" on the literary establishment. There are, I am sure, fine, unpublished writers who could wite circles around some of the "big names" (according to the literati). But unless they have a streak of good fortune descend upon them, their writing will likely not be read. And that is a pity.

Charles Semones